


Tradition Becomes Our Security

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Best Friends, Comfort No Hurt, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cybertron, Domestic Fluff, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Inspired by Art, Late at Night, Multi, Nightly Rounds, Optimus as a Spark, POV First Person, Post-Predacons Rising (Prime Movie), Protectiveness, Short & Sweet, Spark!Optimus, Sparkimus Prime, Spoilers for Predacons Rising, Team as Family, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Watching Someone Sleep, Well of All Sparks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3614181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in his new spark form on Cybertron, even with the war ended, Optimus finds himself on a mission of critical importance, a mission of very personal meaning to both himself and his team. </p><p>/Prime'verse, post-Predacons Rising. Intense fluff. Oneshot.\</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tradition Becomes Our Security

I drift slowly from my hiding place in a half-open drawer, trying to dim my own radiance in the darkness of the ship. Even in this form I can’t help reliving a little tradition I created while I held the role of Prime.

Floating down the hall, I slip into the rec room, illuminating the area with my soft red glow. I am searching…ah, and there he is. Bulkhead is sitting against a table, his ventilations long and rattling as they always have been when he’s deep in recharge. Beneath that, there is a spindlier whine that doesn’t seem to belong to him. When I move slightly closer to investigate, I can see Wheeljack tucked under Bulkhead’s arm, equally out cold. I wish I could smile in this form as I back away and continue my search.

I catch a graceful, high-pitched whirr next, tucked up in a little wall crevice. I’m smaller than she is now, I realize as I glide toward Arcee, studying her recharging position and wondering if it’s uncomfortable. She’s curled into herself with her helm almost resting on her knees. This is much like the position of the human baby in the womb, I realize, wondering faintly how I can recall that. If I could shake my helm in wonder, I would, but I spin my entire form around instead and move on.

There’s a group of three near the wash racks, but only two of them are still. I move closer, my crimson light glimmering across Smokescreen, who’s lounging on Bumblebee’s shoulder. They’re both humming faintly, but it’s drowned out by crackling and spitting from nearby. I ought to be surprised that there is a light source other than my own in the room, but I’m not. Knockout is repairing circuits in his arm, but he looks up as I approach. He studies me with more seriousness than I’ve ever seen on him, but there is sadness too. I suspect he was hoping for a visit from a different spark, that of his former partner. I sink down apologetically and then go on my way.

By the office areas is the commander, who didn’t quite manage to make it inside for a late night’s work. Ultra Magnus’ vents rumble softly in his recharge, almost reluctantly, as though he hadn’t wanted to power down until the last drop of energon had been sucked out of him. He’s leaning against the wall, his stance relaxed for the first time in ages, arms loosely crossed over his chest. If he’s brought about by my activity, he’ll likely snap to attention and perhaps even be embarrassed by his lack of vigilance. I don’t want to put that burden on him, so I quickly exit the room.

One last stop. As I poke through the cracked doors of the lab, I’m not quite sure what to expect. I drift in relief when I hear the familiar smooth and mellow tone that purrs beneath the rest. My dear old friend is sprawled at his table, helm resting against his arms, obviously caught unawares by recharge like Magnus was. I pause, wondering how Ratchet fared on Earth without the rest of us, without the comforting, disorganized little harmony our sounds of recharge create. I remember arguing with him so often about when we needed to rest that eventually we knew the words by memory and recited it to each other for humor. I’m glad he’s staying on Cybertron now, for his sake, the others, and my own.

Ratchet shifts now, his recharge-purr stuttering just a fraction. On concerned impulse I move forward instead of backward and loop-de-loop gently into the crook of his arm, nestling close to his audial and wondering how to console him. Oh…of course. Recalling how he might have heard it, I try to replicate my own pedal-tone noise. In Ratchet’s view, how could the harmony be considered complete without me? In my light I watch his expression gradually ease and I ease also, settling down where I am. Now that my work for the night is done, I can allow myself some downtime with my family.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired completely by this gorgeous, adorable GIF I found [here](http://shyrstyne.deviantart.com/art/TFP-Downtime-513667044). I don't own the idea, the artist does!!


End file.
